Chapter Text
Nocturne was dead: to begin with.
Of this matter, Shadowheart had no doubt. One cold Midwinter’s eve, the Quartermaster of the Cloister of Sombre Embrace had been found half-hidden behind a blood-soaked rack of polished Justiciar Plate, her throat opened from ear to ear.
The killing was a message, everyone was certain. The Sharrans who had been around since before Shadowheart ascended to Mother Superior all knew that Nocturne was Shadowheart’s oldest and closest friend. In hushed whispers between initiates, rumours even floated through the dark halls that Nocturne was more than a mere friend to Shadowheart.
Shadowheart never paid attention to such rumours, never considering any in the Cloister bold enough to do anything about them. So standing there, over the body of the last true friend she had, Shadowheart came to an easy decision. She would hunt down whoever was responsible, and they would pay for Nocturne’s life with their own.
Within two turbulent months, three Sharrans had been judged guilty, and by Shadowheart’s own wounded hand, their blood was made an offering to the Dark Lady. Within the tenday, a dank cavern within the Cloister had been renovated into an extravagant burial vault, and Nocturne was placed within. Shadowheart herself saw to the burial rites of her friend, leading prayers as she was sent to the eternal comfort of the Nightsinger’s embrace.
Now one year to the day since Nocturne’s assassination, cloistered life had only grown more tumultuous, more isolating. Following lights-out, Shadowheart oft found herself retreating to a private residence in the Upper City, from which she now walked in great haste to her Cloister.
All around her, the citizens of Baldur’s Gate celebrated the eve of Midwinter. Children laughed as they played games through the streets, while families and couples gathered in the market squares to purchase gifts for their loved ones, and food for tomorrows feast. Carollers were posted on every corner, singing hymns to the gods, while priests stood on temple steps calling for Selûne to guide them through the long night, and for the Dawnlord to greet them on the morrow. Shadowheart heard bustling cheers, music and laughter bursting from within taverns as friends broke their fast before their last days work.
In the light cast by city celebrations, Shadowheart was a dark shadow. She shared none of the joy on the rosy-cheeked faces of other Baldurians, and shot an emerald-eyed glare at any who dared wish her a ‘Merry Deadwinter Day.’ She marched through the streets like a Fist on patrol, the metal plates of her boots – cold and cruel as the weather – clattering together as the leather soles crunched on soft snow, signalling for the hurried shoppers to get out of her way. Her cloak, black as her hair and the moonless night, billowed out behind her in the morning breeze. Shadowheart hated the Midwinter holiday.
Midwinter was the time when days were darkest. Until Shadowheart achieves her ultimate duty, it is the closest the mortal realms can come to the perfection of her Lady’s darkness. Yet the people choose to spend this sacred time holding feasts and festivities, scouring the city with lights to brighten the darkest days. Heresy, to a Sharran such as Shadowheart.
In the eyes of its Mother Superior, the church of Lady Shar is but a dark mirror, held up to show society’s failings and support to those it has left behind. Any and all with broken hearts and broken homes, understand the fundamental truth. That life is nothing but pain and grief. Yet in the comfort of Lady Shar’s sacred darkness, they could find release. Just like Shadowheart herself so long ago, they would be given food, shelter, training, and a purpose: to bring the Nightsinger’s truth to the ignorant masses.
Yet during Midwinter, even the poorest devil-touched wretch of the Outer City could find a way to make merry, and even the haughtiest Upper City Patriar remembered they existed, coughing up money to support them. For at least a day, the people had no need of Lady Shar to sooth their woes, for they had each other. It made Shadowheart sick. She had no need of attachments to any expect the Dark Lady herself, and the people’s merriment was nothing but a fleeting joy she had left behind long ago in her journey to embrace Lady Shar’s purest nothingness.
Shadowheart arrived to the House of Grief, the mask worn by the Cloister of Sombre Embrace. Up the stairs she went, Griefguards bowing in reverence as she passed. When she reached the covered doorway, she removed her cloak, now stained white with snow. Shadowheart grimaced, shaking the snow off before entering. Elissa, half-asleep at her desk, jumped in surprise when she opened the door. “M-my lady, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“You should always expect your Mother Superior,” Shadowheart replied curtly, hanging her cloak on a rack by the doorway, before moving closer to the roaring firepit for warmth.
“Of course, my lady, I apologise. Lady Shar’s blessings to you.” Elissa bowed her head. She was a talented Fidelian, but was still adjusting to the role of Attendant of Grief, having taken over the position following the assassination of Mirie several months ago.
She opened and closed her eyes in an attempt to force herself awake, focusing on her Mother Superior. Her eyes widened as she took in Shadowheart’s form. Her cloak hid an ostentatious dark robe with silver piping and both a plunging back and neckline. Shards of amethyst bloomed from the floral pattern that rested on each shoulder, and glinted when they caught the firelight. Resting just above the valley between her breasts, she wore an ornate amulet of sharpened silver edges, embedded with an onyx disc - the symbol of her Lady. The robe was uncomfortable, but that mattered little to a servant of Lady Shar. It was designed to emphasise her authority as Mother Superior, and it did its duty well.
Elissa blushed like a maiden as she took in her Mother Superior. The robes accentuated her features, while the flames tanned her exposed pale skin in warm gold. Shadowheart paid her stare no mind. It was an expected side-effect of a beautiful woman in such a dress.
The dress even had such an effect on Tav. A flash of a smile crossed her features. She remembered Tav’s face when she first glimpsed the robe. The awe, the desire… Shadowheart could have been the Dark Lady herself.
The smile disappeared as quickly as it came, as did the memories. “And to you, Sister. Has the House had any guests I should know about?” Her question forced Elissa out of her smitten stupor.
“Not today, my lady, not yet. None yesterday either. It’s been a slow tenday.” Elissa replied with a sigh.
Shadowheart scoffed. “Typical of the season. What news from within the Cloister? I do not wish for ill surprises.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary, my lady. After you left, it was light’s out as normal. Though Sister Nightmist has proven great strength of leadership in your absence.”
Shadowheart cocked an eyebrow at the statement, curious. “She has?”
The attendant nodded. “Yes, my lady. Both Justiciar Crusaders are very popular among the new recruits.”
Shadowheart’s smile was false. “They are, hm? Thank you Elissa.” Justiciar Crusader Nightmist was the first to support Shadowheart’s coup against Mother Superior Viconia DeVir, and had become a natural second. Though of late, she had been pushing beyond her station. Even more dangerous, Sister Nightmist had the unwavering loyalty of the younger Justiciar’s. It was a mistake to leave the Cloister in her hands, but the danger if she remained was growing greater by the day. Dark cloaks hide gleaming daggers. Sharran, Selûnite, and Harper alike.
Elissa bowed her head once again, and Shadowheart headed inside, passing through the inquiry room and the secret door that separated the Cloister of Sombre Embrace from the House of Grief façade. The smell of incense assaulted her nose as she descended the long staircase, but her ears were thankfully spared from the screams that once greeted her.
In the years since she had taken over, Shadowheart had renovated and expanded the cavernous Cloister far beyond Viconia’s dreams. The staircase and the floors were polished marble of dark grey, hued in purple by the light of magic braziers of violet flame, which hung on chains from stone roofs and were sconced upon walls of dark-blue granite that mimicked the night sky. The classrooms of the old entryway, too small for the number of initiates that embraced Lady Shar in the wake of the Absolute crisis, had been rebuilt elsewhere. The torture room was now adjacent to the prison, keeping all screams and cries for help to a single location, beyond the concern of the rest of the Cloister.
The new entryway was an artistic monument of murals to Shadowheart’s glories, a reminder to all who entered of her position within the Cloister. To Shadowheart’s immediate left, an ancient citadel lined with images of the Dark Lady sealed a tornado of purple magics. At its very centre, Shadowheart stood adorned in gleaming armour of blue-steel, gold, and lavender, the sacred Spear of Evening raised high above her head. At her feet, consumed eternally in that raging miasma, writhed an angel of dull silver. To the right of that mural, a tower built in honour of the moon-bitch was ripped apart by umbral tendrils that burst from the broken and blackened landscape that surrounded it. Below, in halls of flesh and bone, Shadowheart stood triumphant over the traitor, Myrkul’s Chosen. Upon the opposite wall, Sharran faced Sharran as Shadowheart battled Viconia for supremacy over Lady Shar’s church. Shadowheart made the will of Lady Shar known to Viconia, as her spear bit deep and drank of her essence. The final image showed the new Mother Superior leading her children in battle against the Nether Brain, facing down hordes of grotesque aberrations, and a Red Dragon. In the aftermath, Shadowheart walks through the rubble of the Lower City, providing aid to citizen and former cultist alike, and sending them to the House of Grief.
The murals depict the story of a lone woman, guided at every step by the Dark Lady, as she claims her destiny. Curiously, the one woman who stood beside her at every event proved absent. Indeed, impressionable young initiates would be forgiven for thinking the titular ‘Hero of Baldur’s Gate’ was Shadowheart herself. Shadowheart knew in her heart that every event depicted could not have been done without that Hero’s support. Her children, however, did not need to know how much their Mother Superior had relied and leaned upon a woman that wasn’t the Dark Lady, no matter how much it shamed her to forgo such a vital presence in this commemoration of her journey.
As Shadowheart stared, she couldn’t help but pay particular attention to the mural depicting her killing Viconia, thinking upon how desperately Viconia fought against the inevitably of her fate. Is that my fate too? She pushed the thought out as soon as it came. Viconia was a traitor, who defied the Dark Lady’s will. If she had merely stepped aside, then perhaps she could have continued to serve under Shadowheart, but it was too late now to think on such matters. They had all made their choices.
She walked the dark halls, heavy footfalls on hallowed ground announcing her presence as she arrived to the main hall. Sister-Fidelian Gloommask was deep in sermon, not even acknowledging Shadowheart as she passed. Her children, however, turned their heads. Some showed reverence, others turned with a sneer, while others were clearly just bored by the monotony of Sister Gloommask’s speech. Of all Lady Shar’s children, Gloommask had come closest to achieving the sacred emptiness they all craved. The porcelain mask she wore, of a face that stared in silent judgement - its forehead embedded with a disc of pure obsidian - may well have been her true face. Though she spoke in words of reverence and praise, her voice lacked any emotion whatsoever.
Shadowheart continued to her private quarters, which were another of her many extensions, designed to her own personal specificities. They were a requirement Shadowheart felt Viconia had sorely overlooked, in her attempt to keep constant vigil over her children, not that sharing the same dorm as their Mother Superior dissuaded a truly determined Sharran from amorous activities muffled by bedsheets. Shadowheart herself could attest to that. Before she ever knew Tav, Nocturne had made an enjoyable bedfellow.
Shadowheart’s private quarters were an office, bedroom, and chapel, each separated by heavy wooden doors. She opened the first. The church of the Dark Lady had no singular holy book, but if it did, its contents could be found amongst the bookshelves that lined the walls of Shadowheart’s office, along with incense and candles. The same braziers of purple flame hung from the ceiling, casting an eerie glow upon the violet and gold banners that hung from the walls. A circle was cut out of each – the empty space, lined with gold, creating the symbol of Lady Shar. Several unoccupied tables and chairs stood in the large room. By the door to her quarters sat Shadowheart’s own, though this one was occupied.
Justiciar Crusader Nightmist sat in her seat, at her desk, engaging in rapt discussion with Justiciar Crusader Owltalon.
Owltalon rose quickly from her own seat when she heard the door open. She turned on her heel, and bowed her head. “My lady.” She stammered. “Lady Shar’s blessings to you.”
Shadowheart paid her no mind, staring daggers into the azure eyes of Nightmist. “You’re in my seat, Sister.”
Nightmist’s face was as unreadable as the gold mask adorning her helmet, which rested on the desk. Sensing the anger on her lady, Nightmist justified herself. “Lady Shar’s blessing to you, my lady. Your absences of an evening have become more frequent. Someone had to fill your place. As your second, it seemed only natural I be the one to do so.” She spoke words of the highest arrogance, in a tone that lacked any indication of such emotion. Nightmist grabbed her helmet and stood. “Yet now you have returned to us, so once again I relinquish your duties back to you.” She bowed her head in quiet reverence.
Shadowheart approached, sauntering around Nightmist like a lion would to a wounded deer. She took her seat “I hear you have proven yourselves in my absence, Sisters. I am told my children have great faith in you.”
Nightmist forced a smile, as if the emotion of happiness were a foreign thing. “We did only as the Dark Lady demands of us. That the initiates speak so highly is simply proof of our faith.”
Owltalon spoke up. “They are eager, and seek stern leadership, but they worry as to why their Mother Superior leaves them of an evening. But now that you have returned, my lady, I am sure you can remind the initiates of what true leadership looks like.”
“They worry?” Shadowheart said, brows furrowing. “What gives them cause to worry about my absence.”
“Perhaps they believe their Mother Superior fears her Cloister, once darkness falls.” Nightmist spoke.
The gall of such a statement took Shadowheart aback. Shadowheart tried to stymy the anger that rose from her tone. “And what do you believe, Nightmist? Am I right to fear such things?”
Nightmist remained as emotionless as ever, unmoved by the glare of her Mother Superior. Owltalon spoke for her. “The initiates love to gossip amongst themselves, my lady. I would pay no mind to such rumours.”
Shadowheart turned to face Owltalon. Raising a fist, she spat. “Rumours got Nocturne killed.” She spoke to both Justiciar’s with a pointed finger. “If you hear such rumours amongst my flock, then you quell them, understood? Or they will spark a flame that burns us down.”
“As you say, my lady.” Nightmist spoke.
“I do say, with Her voice. All you need to do is listen, and obey. Now if you’ll excuse me, we all have work to be doing. Your next-generation await your training.” Shadowheart pulled a prayer-book from a drawer and began reading, no longer paying attention to the Justiciars.
“Perhaps they would do better to learn from the only Justiciar here to have completed the sacred Gauntlet?” Owltalon encouraged.
Shadowheart smiled wryly. “And deprive them of your tutelage, when they have expressed such favour for it?” Her face returned blank. “Besides, I have my own duties to attend to. Send in my aide.” Shadowheart addressed, returning her attention to the book that sat on the desk.
Both Justiciar’s hesitated, looking to each other for assistance. Shadowheart took note of the silence and spoke again. “What is the matter?”
For a moment, Nightmist’s emotionless exterior betrayed a hint of something else. “The girl is infirmed, but I can have her released to you.”
Anger flared in Shadowheart’s eyes. “What happened to her?”
Nightmist shrugged, rolling her eyes. “Wilbur’s morning drills were too much for her to handle. The girl is weak.”
Shadowheart grit her teeth. “She’s just a child. She’ll grow strong in time.”
“In body, perhaps. But in spirit?” Nightmist shook her head. “She lacks the heart to do as the Dark lady demands.”
Owltalon began to speak, her tempers rising the more she complained. “The girl has never successfully extracted information during Sister Tylda’s lessons. She vomited when she was shown how to break a thumb, and refuses to act, even under threat of the rod.” Owltalon scoffed. “Not that the Sister would dare wield it upon her with the strength the other novices face. My lady, you can take a bitch from the moon, but you cannot so easily take the moon from the bitch.” They both eyed Shadowheart with an eerie glance that made her suddenly uneasy.
Shadowheart narrowed her brows. “She is a moon-bitch child, yes, but one I am training in the ways of Lady Shar. Our Mistress would not take issue with my corruption. Do you, Sister?”
Owltalon grew angrier. She never could control her emotions as well as Nightmist. “I take issue with your favour for the girl.” She spat. “She should have suffered the fate of her parents, not have been dragged here.” Owltalon lowered her temper. “I will believe you are corrupting her when I see it, but you continue to be soft on her. If the previous Mother Superior were this soft on you, would you have had the strength to take your rightful place?”
Frustration grew within Shadowheart like a kettle on the boil. The arrogance to speak to her like this. “Do not compare me to her. You yourselves judged her unworthy of her position, and helped me usurp it.”
Owltalon made to speak, but Nightmist spoke first, and carefully. “Indeed. And should our present Mother Superior’s heart lie elsewhere, we will not hesitate to do it again.”
Silence hung over the room like a thick cloud. For a moment Shadowheart was lost for words at the sheer brazenness of the threat, delivered so casually. “Is that so?.”
Her anger flamed her eyes with violet, which bored into Nightmist’s blackened soul. She rose slowly from her chair, hands resting on the table, as the same flare of purple emanated from her hand.
The air around Nightmist grew heavy and suffocating. As Shadowheart clenched her wounded hand into a fist, Invisible tendrils of shadow wrapped themselves around Nightmist’s neck, and squeezed.
Nightmist felt like her neck had been trapped in a vice. She clung desperately for air, but found she couldn’t even move. She reached for Shadowheart, begging for release with her eyes.
“What’s the matter, Sister?” Shadowheart smiled sardonically. “Lost for words? Where’s your sharp tongue now?” She laughed with derision. “That’s the Dark Lady’s power that clings to you, dragging you into Her embrace, and yet you struggle against it?”
Owltalon merely looked on in horror, piecing together in her mind the words that would release her fellow Justiciar. “My lady, please,” she begged to Shadowheart, “release her. I will correct her, I swear it.”
“Do not think yourself innocent in this, Owltalon. Let this be a lesson to you both.” The magic dissipated. Metal clanked against metal and rattling chainmail as Nightmist collapsed to her knees. She tore at the straps that locked her breastplate as she spluttered for air. Shadowheart kicked her, steel toe on steel plate, knocking her flat on her back, and stood over her. “You bear the recalcitrance I’d whip out of my novices of late, Sisters. Do not forget who among us carries our Mistress’ blessing.” Nightmist crawled away. Still coughing for air, unable to speak, she simply nodded. Shadowheart turned away, sitting back at her desk. “Compose yourself, Nightmist. What would your students think if you came before them bleating like a frightened lamb?” Shadowheart waved a hand. “You are both dismissed. Oh, and the next time you take issue with the way I rule, I suggest you keep it to yourselves. Speak it, and I will rip out your tongues.”
The Justiciar Crusaders scurried away with their tails between their legs, lesson hopefully learned.
Shadowheart remained at her desk, writing her own holy scripture, when she heard a tentative knock at the door. “Enter.” She called to the dark room, dipping her quill in ink, and bringing it back to the paper.
The door creaked open. In the purple light of the brazier, the shadow of a giant was cast on the wall, but in walked a young human girl, no more than eight-years-old, with hair of strawberry blonde, and eyes as murky as the water of Grey harbour. She sported an ill-fitting dark cloak, and a bruise above her left eye, no doubt from a practice sword.
Kathryn spoke in a soft voice. “You asked for me, Mother?”
Shadowheart did not look up from her work. “I did.” She extended a hand to the chair opposite her own. “Come, sit.”
Though Shadowheart would never admit it to any soul, living or dead, she felt a personal responsibility to the tutoring of young Kathryn. She had, after all, orphaned the young girl when she had slain her Selûnite parents.
Kathryn sat in the chair, swinging her legs and fiddling with her hands as she watched Shadowheart write away. “What are you writing?” Kathryn asked.
“Prayers that you shall one day study.” Shadowheart said. She paused, dipping her quill in its inkpot. She clasped her hands together, elbows on the table, and turned toward Kathryn, eyeing her intensely. “They tell me you were injured. I thought I had trained you better.”
Kathryn withered under Shadowheart’s gaze. “Everyone was tougher than I was.” She shook her head. “I don’t think they like me.” She sniffled.
Shadowheart raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “Why do you think that, Kat?”
The girl sniffled again. “They tell me my blood is stained with silver. That I’ll never be one of them. A-and they talk about you…”
Shadowheart was intrigued. “Go on.”
The girl continued. “They call you weak, for protecting me. They say I should be dead.” The girl began to weep. If Viconia were still Mother Superior, and Shadowheart the girl, Viconia would smack her until she quieted, or threaten to take her to the wolves. Shadowheart was not Viconia.
She placed a hand to the girls cheek, wiping away the tear. “No tears, girl. Tears are what they want to see. They want to see you weak, but you are strong, stronger than all of them. In time, they will see it. For now, they’re just jealous, because of the favour I show you.” She gave the girl a sly smile. “I was in your position once, you know? Bullied for the favouritism our Mother showed me alone.” Shadowheart scoffed at the memory. “They even mocked my name. They said I was unworthy of it.” Shadowheart laughed wryly. “Their knees all bent, in time.
The girl stopped crying, and looked at Shadowheart with soft awe. “Perhaps one day,” Shadowheart continued, “they will look at you with such reverence. But you must grow strong first, and hide your pain from scrutinous eyes. Your wounds are for Lady Shar alone. In her darkness, you’ll find no such judgement.”
Shadowheart pulled away. She left for a bookshelf that stood against the wall, removing a copy of Teachings of Loss: Endless Dark. She sat back down at her desk and handed it to the girl. “Now, I have been briefed on your performance in Sister Tylda’s lessons…”
The girl cowered once more. “She makes me do things… hurt people.”
“Do you understand why?”
Kathryn didn’t answer, so Shadowheart continued. “Why did I bring you to this place?”
“B-because I had no-one, after… after my parents…”
“Because you suffered.” Shadowheart spoke softly, her words a Te Curo upon Kathryn’s pain. “You came to understand grief, and at such a young age, so I bought you here. Umbral bliss can soothe even the worst torments. Now you have a new family, as a child of Lady Shar, and the burden of grief is eased.”
Kathryn’s sopping eyes looked into Shadowheart’s. “But what does that have to do with the people in that room, and the screams? They scream when I’m asleep…”
“Because they don’t understand what we do. Lady Shar’s embrace awaits us all, willing or unwilling. Through pain we can hasten their understanding, and only when they understand, can we end that pain. It is difficult, I know. But it is a kindness.” The sorrow in the girl’s eyes seemed to ease, but Shadowheart knew it would take a lot more than a lecture for her to find comfort in performing the dark duty. Some never do…
Shadowheart handed her the book, and encouraged Kathryn to read it in silence. “This will help you udnerstand. Go on, give it a read.”
Another knock came much later, this time unexpected. Curious, Shadowheart called out for the figure to enter. Moran, a stocky dwarven Griefguard, poked his scraggly bearded head out from behind the door. “Milady.” He coughed, clearly nervous. “We have, um, a visitor here to see you.”
Shadowheart was in no mood for whatever plagued Moran. “Cat got your tongue, Brother? Who?”
The Grief guard looked around, as if to make sure they were away from prying eyes. “Wyll Ravengard, milady.”
Wyll Ravengard, the Blade of Frontiers… One of those who had travelled with Shadowheart in her journey to defeat the Absolute. He was a good friend in those early days, but just like all the rest, he turned against her the closer she came to achieving her destiny. It was no matter, she had Lady Shar, and - for a time - Tav.
“Wyll Ravengard.” Shadowheart repeated, considering what possible business could bring the Blade of Frontiers to her door. “Did he say why he came to speak with me?”
The Griefguard shook his head. “No milady, but he said his business was for your pointy ears alone. Ah! His words, understand.”
Shadowheart closed her eyes in thought. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her arms. Suddenly, she pushed herself up. “Very well, I’ll see him.”
Moran’s eyes widened like two balloons. “Milady, you can’t think to-“
“The Blade’s an old friend Moran, I do not fear him, nor his Arms of Hadar. Besides, it’s not his style to face his foes with his sword still sheathed.” Shadowheart smiled to herself, thinking of the old days. “He’s far too theatrical for that, and too goody-goody besides.”
Moran stuttered. “Very well, milady, I’ll tell him you’re on your way.” The Griefguard slipped back behind the door.
Shadowheart turned to Kathryn. “Come girl, and see who your Mother Superior was once forced to suffer the company of. Perhaps there’s a lesson in it for you.” She left her office, Kathryn at her heel, and headed through the Cloister and back up the stairs to the House of Grief, where the Blade was waiting for her.
The doorway framed him like a portrait that adorned the walls of High Hall. He stood on the porch, elbow resting on the banister, fingers scratching the finely-kept black beard that clung to his chin. A smile plastered across his face as he watched flakes of snow fall onto the river of ice that ran next to the House. Dressed in an elegant doublet of regal blue trimmed with gold, worn over a shirt of red silk, he was the very picture of the ducal elegance he had sacrificed to live a life on the road. The many scars he wore with pride, and his devilish features, told the true story.
Shadowheart shivered as she approached, hugging herself for warmth. Wyll turned, as if sensing her presence. “Shadowheart.” He beamed. “Merry Midwinter!”
Shadowheart did not return the greeting, choosing instead to ignore it. She nodded to the door. “Do you mind? It’s bloody cold out.”
Wyll struggled to stifle a laugh when he realised what Shadowheart was wearing. To say it offered little protection from the cold was an understatement. “Apologies, I see you’re not exactly dressed for the weather.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him as Shadowheart moved to sit on Elissa’s desk, arms still crossed.
“Well I don’t conduct my duties in the garden.” She smirked, pointing with a thumb to the room of inquiry, and the Cloister hidden beyond. “My Lady keeps me warm enough in her darkness.”
A clawed hand waved through the air. “Of course she does. Oh, come here, Shadowheart. It’s been too long.” He opened his arms, offering a hug, but Shadowheart’s arms remained crossed, her face unamused.
Wyll’s arms dropped, but he kept his smile. “I guess ‘Sombre Embrace’ is just for the sign. Is that really all the greeting you have to offer an old friend?” He scratched at his chin again. “Hm, perhaps you have forgotten us after all.”
“Hello, mister Blade!” Young Kathryn called to Wyll from the back of the room.”
Wyll smiled at her. “And hello to you.” He turned to Shadowheart. “And who’s this?”
“One of my initiates.” Shadowheart replied. “She’s here at my behest, but her presence shouldn’t concern you. Your business is with me.”
“Right to it, then, eh?” Wyll sighed, his smile fading. “No inviting me to stay for a mulled wine and a chat?”
“Not all of us have the luxury to go gallivanting where we please, Mr. Ravengard.” She spat the surname out, reminding the Blade of his Ducal heritage. “Some of us have more important matters, initiates to train. My Lady may have the patience of eternity, but I am burdened by mortality.”
“I understand.” Wyll held up his hands in mock defence. “You have your dark duties, so I won’t keep you,” his voice quietened, “at least for today, I hope…” Wyll puffed out his chest, horned-head raised high. “Shadowheart, on this eve of celebration, I would like to cordially invite you to a celebration of my own, being hosted by myself and Karlach at our residence in the Upper City.”
Shadowheart’s reaction was not what he hoped for. She barely reacted at all. “Come again?” She said.
Wyll huffed in disbelief. “I am inviting you to a Midwinter feast, tomorrow evening, at six-o-clock, at my residence.”
Shadowheart was almost disgusted by the very proposition. “You’re inviting a Sharran to a Midwinter feast. Please, Wyll. I have my own customs to observe when night falls, thank you very much, and I want nothing to do with yours.”
Wyll’s face darkened. “I feared that would be your answer. I had hope, but…” Wyll’s tone was wistful. “The tenth Midwinter since we defeated the Absolute.” But Shadowheart had little want for reminiscence.
For those who fought by her side, it had been ten years since they’d defeated the Absolute and saved Faerûn. For Shadowheart, it had been ten years since she’d taken her destined position, and what did she have to show for it? Initially, she oversaw such rapid growth, so many recruits. For a time, the Dark word spread like the night sky, Oblivion seeming as inevitable as the setting sun. But progress proved ephemeral, and was quickly replaced with stagnation.
Wyll continued. “I’ll be honest, I was hesitant to ask, but Karlach, she insisted.” Wyll proceeded to do a poor impression of their fiery friend. “I don’t give two fucks if she’s some bigtime Mother Superior, she’s still our friend, dammit. ‘Least I hope. Besides, it’s not a true celebration without Shads, and this is the big one.”
Shadowheart laughed in spite of herself, as an image of Karlach burned into her mind. She stared past Wyll, into the firepit that kept Elissa and the Griefguards warm. “You and Karlach… When we met, Tav’s silver tongue had to talk you down from taking her head. How on Toril did you two ever end up together?”
Wyll shrugged, smiling. “Because we fell in love. Surely even you wouldn’t begrudge us that.”
Shadowheart cocked her head, sending Wyll a deadpan expression that questioned the validity of his claim. She rolled her eyes, sighing, as she turned her attention to Kathryn. “Initiate Kathryn, what is love?”
Kathryn tensed, thinking for a moment before she spoke. “Love is a cruel lie, a disease.” Kat began. “It’s a flame, pretty and warm. But it’ll burn you down and leave you with nothing!”
“Wise words, initiate Kathryn.” But stolen from the book, perhaps one day she too will understand their meaning. She turned back to Wyll. “A pretty metaphor, though I suppose in your case it’s all too real.”
“Ha ha.” Wyll faked his laugh. “The fire inside Karlach burns hot as ever, but thanks to us, the engine is no longer an issue.”
“But you’ll still die.” Shadowheart said, all too apathetically. “Within eighty years, you’ll have died of old age, that is if some monster or common bandit doesn’t get you first. Karlach will watch as your hair turns grey and your skin wrinkles. The Blade’s vaunted strength will fade, and you’ll turn in your sword for a walking stick. Karlach will carry you to bed in those big arms, and then she’ll carry your coffin. She’ll be alone then, and she’ll carry on. Perhaps she’ll even turn to me for help with the pain.”
“Karlach will have friends enough to support her when the time comes, she’ll have no need of you and your Dark Lady.” Wyll dismissed. He crossed his arms, turning away from Shadowheart to look out a nearby window, but she could see her words had hurt him. Good, she thought. Wyll’s face scrunched with scepticism. “Is that why you cut things off with Tav? Because you’ll outlive her?”
Rage flashed in Shadowheart’s eyes as she huffed in disbelief. There was venom in her voice. “Tav walked away from me. But so what? Better she left sooner, anyway.” Her voice softened as she continued. “There is beauty in that which cannot last, but the closer you become, the harder is it to part…” Shadowheart’s head fell into her hand. “It was my mistake to allow it to go on for as long as it did. I should have heeded my Lady’s demands.” She shook her head, steeling herself. “It is not a mistake I shall make again. Love is poison. I love my Lady, and she loves me. That is enough.”
Looking upon the dark shadow of the woman he once knew, Wyll felt nothing but sorrow. “I would laugh at such a jape, that Shar is even capable of love, but I know all too well you believe what you say.” He spoke low, his voice wistful. “Love, Shadowheart, is the greatest and most powerful gift the gods have given us. For the love I hold for my city, I gave up my eye in battle, and my freedom in an infernal pact. For my love of the Coast, I fought to protect its people, and they named me a hero. For the love I hold for my father, I gave my freedom once again. And for the love I hold for Karlach, I traversed the darkest pits of Avernus, explored forgotten ruins, and slew Devil and Demon alike, all while waist-deep in the stinking mire of the Styx, just to bring her home. And in spite of all the horror we experienced, I wouldn’t have traded even a moment at her side. Love is so powerful, Shadowheart, that even in such desolation, my love for Karlach only ever grew. When we returned home, well, I had no choice but to marry her. Love is all around us, especially at a time of merriment such as this. If you spent less time in dark caverns, preaching of loss and endless darkness, perhaps you might understand.”
If Wyll believed his words would sway the shadowed heart of the woman before him, he was sorely mistaken. With such a vacant look in her eyes, he may as well have just spoken of the House’s taxes. “Are you done?” She sneered at him. “That was a rousing speech, fitting for a Duke.” She jeered.
Her snark only saddened Wyll further. “I knew a Shadowheart once who may have agreed with me, at least in thought, if not with words. She looked to our leader with the affection you only read about in story-books.”
Shadowheart’s gaze was hard as steel. “That girl you knew was so distracted by fleeting thoughts and longing gazes it could have turned her heretic. Tch.” Shadowheart spat. “Well she’s gone, and I’m here, whole. You all helped me achieve my destiny, and I’m grateful, but it matters little to me if you don’t like the woman I became. My days of seeking approval are long gone. Take what fleeting joy love offers, if that’s your business, but leave me to mine.”
Wyll staggered, face contorting into shock. “Your business is sorrow and grief. I come to you, heart bared, offering you merriment, a fine feast, and the company of old friends, and you spurn me, just as you have so many times before. Your loneliness is of your own making, Shadowheart. Perhaps it’s best if you do not come. If Tav saw the woman you’ve become…”
“Tav will be there?” Shadowheart interrupted, surprised to hear the words.
Wyll huffed incredulously. “Everyone will be there, Shadowheart.”
Shadowheart eyed him suspiciously. “But Tav’s not in the city. I’d know-.” Shadowheart caught herself. “Tav has lots of friends in the city, but also lots of enemies. I ensure she’s protected.” She offered with a sly smile.
Wyll huffed once more in increasing disbelief. “And are we all afforded such ‘protection’, I wonder… She’s been away on Harper business, yes, but Jaheira won’t let her cub miss such a gathering.” Wyll smiled to himself. “And if Jaheira didn’t come back, I’m sure Jord and Rion would be out there themselves just to drag her home.”
Shadowheart quietened, her words cynical. “It makes no difference. I’d sooner fall before the moon than be in the same room as the High bloody Harper, after the stunts she’s pulled. And besides, Tav made it very clear she wants nothing to do with me.”
“Is that what you believe?” Wyll muttered. “All that time in your Lady’s darkness has blinded you to the clearest things.”
Shadowheart’s brow furrowed in indignance. “Goodbye Wyll.”
Wyll was exasperated. He straightened himself, ready to leave. “Merry Midwinter, Shadowheart.” Shadowheart stared, vexed, saying nothing. Wyll turned his attention to the girl who sat through the meeting quiet as a mouse. “Merry Midwinter, Kathryn.” His lingering feelings from the meeting with Shadowheart made him force his smile, but it was infectious anyway.
The girl beamed back at him. “Merry Midwinter, Wyll!”
Shadowheart shot up, turning on her heels to the girl. “Not another word or you’ll be sleeping in the cells tonight.” She turned to Wyll. “Do not try to corrupt my children with your rhetoric.”
Wyll looked her up and down, biting his tongue. “She’s just a girl, Shadowheart.”
Shadowheart did not relent. “She’s a child of Lady Shar, not some coddled babe.”
Wyll glowered at her incredulously, before his expression turned dolorous. He said nothing, moving to the door. His hand on the handle, he paused, eyes closing in thought. Wyll opened the door to the frigid midday air. Staring out to the city, he spoke softly to Shadowheart. “For what little it’s worth, Shadowheart, I’m glad to have come here an old friend, rather than a stranger to your mind.” He turned to face Shadowheart. “That you still remember us, the journey we shared… It means something.” He smiled once more. “Merry Midwinter.”
Shadowheart stared, wide-eyed, as Wyll left without another word, leaving her alone with Kathryn. Her face fell into her palms, and she solemnly granted Kathryn leave to return to her appointed lessons.
Her brooding was interrupted as the front door opened once again, two men letting themselves in with yet another bloody “Merry Midwinter!”. One was a stout old dwarf with a pudgy round face, pinned with grey mutton chops and topped with a floppy brimmed hat that hid his baldness. The other was his opposite, a lanky elf with a rectangular face and long, golden locks. He looked young, but for all Shadowheart knew he could have been two centuries her senior. Together they appeared as a comedic duo, and though they would introduce themselves as representatives from the Parliament of Peers, the mummery they were to put Shadowheart through was no less authentic.
The dwarf wore fine raiment, and a cloak around his shoulder, pinned with a broach bearing the sigil of House Bormul. He spoke as if his fondness for the pipe had seeped too deeply into his lungs, but even still, he carried the accent that indicated his descent. “Merry Midwinter, madam. I am Mr. Waldin, and this is Sir Statlan. Who may we have the pleasure of speaking to?” He removed his right glove, presenting a hand in greeting.
The two had far too jovial a manner to have come seeking unburdening, but perhaps they could be persuaded into buying a book or two. Shadowheart tried to dampen the feeling Wyll had left her with, adding an affectation of pleasantry. “I am lady Shadowheart.” The dwarf recoiled slightly at her name, but she crouched to shake his fat sweaty hand anyway. “Welcome gentlemen, to my House of Grief.”
The dwarf raised an eyebrow. “The House of Grief is yours, you say? Excuse me, but is there a Ms. DeVir around?”
Shadowheart straightened, and spoke curtly. “Viconia DeVir left this plane during the Absolute crisis.”
The dwarf doffed his hat. “Ah, my apologies, lady Shadowheart. We are terribly sorry for your loss.”
“I’m not.” Shadowheart shrugged. “I’m the one who killed her.” She smiled, as if to pretend she had made a dark joke.
The dwarf, clearly unused to such gallows humour, cleared his throat. “W-well, we have come as representatives of the Duke Voebe Bormul. Our lady has come to understand that, before her unfortunate disappearance, the Baron Alice Bormul was a fond supporter of your House of Grief, and did great business with Ms. DeVir.”
Great business indeed… Shadowheart thought sardonically. She remembered finding Bormul’s bones half-buried in the Cloister’s prison, skeletal fingers clutching a will written in blood.
The dwarf continued. “And we have hope to… renew such excellent business under your leadership.”
Shadowheart was intrigued. “And what business are you proposing exactly?”
The dwarf leered at her. “All in due time, lady Shadowheart. Firstly…” He coughed once more to clear his throat, and puffed out his chest. “On such a merry occasion as this… Midwinter, it is customary for the noble Patriars of the city to take particular notice of those less fortunate. Our lady Bormul has taken a particular interest in the Outer City, oft-forgotten to those who have the privilege to live within the confines of Balduran’s walls.”
The dwarf stepped back, allowing his elven companion to speak in his stead. The elf was far more pleasant to listen to, speaking clearly, and with a refined elegance. “The most destitute of the Outer City fight for the barest scrap of food. Their blankets, their very clothes, are too well-worn to keep them from the cold, and they cannot afford to keep their fires going, to brighten the darkest nights, and warm the coldest days.”
Shadowheart scoffed, interrupting the elf’s speech. “I am not a lute to be played with your practiced speeches, gentlemen, speak your business plainly.”
The elf stammered, then gathered himself. “The lady Bormul believes it is the duty of every Baldurian to support one another at such a season. As such, we come requesting alms, whatever you have to offer.”
“Whatever I have to offer?” Shadowheart was appalled by such brazenness. “I’m sure your Lady Bormul has enough money to go around?”
“The Duchess has many successful enterprises, yes, and she has given much herself.” The dwarf tried to assure. “She is simply encouraging other Baldurians to make those same donations.”
“And so you come to my House? My House, which survives on donations? Donations which have been severely lacking during what I’m told is such a giving season. Why does the duchess send us nothing, if she is in such a charitable mood.”
The dwarf stood mouth-agape as he formed a response. “I would be glad to speak of the House’s needs to the duchess, lady Shadowheart.”
“Please do.” Shadowheart encouraged, face filled with scorn. “The House of Grief has been taking care of the cities needy long before the Patriar’s looked down from their ivory towers. Where was the duchess when I gave a home to a young girl whose family had been murdered by the remnants of Bhaal, or a broken man who lost his livelihood to the Guild?”
Faced with Shadowheart’s wroth, the dwarf forgot how to form words. “s-s-she-she wa-”
Shadowheart began counting on her fingers. “Supplies, food, clothing, bedding, refurbishment, repairs; none of it comes free. I do not have money to throw at idle baggers to drink away at a bordello.”
The elf stepped in, far more composed than the dwarf. “Lady Shadowheart, our apologies, but there are truly desperate people. Without our assistance, they will surely starve, if the cold weather does not get them first. The nights are dark, cold, and oh so long.”
Shadowheart calmed, growing stern. “Then let them freeze. They must learn to embrace the dark, rather than fear it. When they understand that, gentlemen, send them to me. They may yet find a home at the House of Grief. Good day.”
After the men left, grumbling, Shadowheart returned to the comforting darkness of the Grotto. Her day carried on without interruption from then, save for what the most foolish of her children had in store. Feeling scorn for the Duke Bormul, she organised with several of her more talented adepts a potential heist of the Bormul House, to fill the Cloister’s coffers with gold and any useful information. She supervised afternoon melee drills, smiling with pride as Kathryn fought a smug young tiefling named Daeren. Kat remained calm under his constant goading, dodging and parrying every blow, before her dulled sword came crashing onto his iron helmet with a thwang that echoed throughout the chamber like the beat of a gong. Daeren was carted off to the infirmary, while the other initiates looked to Kat with disgruntled awe. Kat herself did not notice, her own gaze searching for approval in the eyes of her Mother Superior. When the corners of Shadowheart’s mouth curved upwards, Kat’s expression matched it.
Potion training followed, which became an unfortunate ordeal. A human in his teens drank an elixir of hill giant strength and broke the jaw of a novice he accused of seducing another he was clearly infatuated with. A separate incident occurred when a bumbling dolt of a drow novice named Elienne dropped a Potion of Gaseous Form, halting lessons until several students returned to corporeality. Then there was over-eager Duskling, who misjudged her poison dosage and drank far too much.
Finally, there was Brother Monteith, a Sentry caught sneaking out with a Potion of Invisibility, Sleep, and a vial of Malice. He claimed ignorance, that someone must have planted them there, but Shadowheart was unconvinced. She had thought the rules on unauthorised removal of supplies clear enough, but it was clear her children needed a reminder. Monteith was dragged to the dais of the central hall and stripped. With her own hand, Shadowheart flogged Monteith before his brothers and sisters. Following this, he was taken to the dungeons, his planned interrogation to be carried out by Sister-Fidelian Tylda, who seemed personally honoured she had been chosen for such a task.
As the sun outside fled once more beyond the horizon, Shadowheart’s children all entered the dedicated feast hall she had overseen construction of. On a raised dais at one end of the room, Shadowheart sat behind a long stone table, slumped into a high chair of granite and gold. She was flanked to her right by a seat left empty in Nocturne’s honour. On her left side sat her Justiciar Crusaders, behind each of whom hung a banner of violet and gold. Behind Shadowheart herself stood a grand visage of the Dark Lady.
Shadowheart swirled a goblet of wine – drawn fresh from a bottle sourced from her private cellar - as she watched her children enter, her thoughts clouded by the incidents of the day. Her wrist still ached from the severity of the whipping, but when she thought of what Monteith could have done with what he’d stolen, she cursed herself for staying her hand too early.
What vexed her most, however, was that she had never considered Monteith a traitor, though in truth she barely registered his presence at all. They may have served as initiates together once, but though she achieved the greatest heights a Sharran could, Monteith grew into nothing more than a thug in leather armour; a living monument to Viconia’s failure. His loyalty to the Dark lady, however, was inked into his very skin, and he had never shown hostility to Shadowheart. But if even he had conspired to steal from her, then who else? Had he acted alone? Was he framed? And if so, then why, and by whom?
From behind a porcelain mask that hid her paranoia, Shadowheart looked upon her flock as they took their seats at the various tables that littered the hall, flittering between eyes that peered half-hidden from under dark hoods. She looked to her Fidelians and Justiciar’s, though they too were masked like she, along with crowned cowls that covered their heads. Only Shadowheart’s raven hair was permitted to flow freely. They all had their secrets. They all hid their hearts from her. I have trained them too well…
When everyone was seated, she stood from her own, and calmed her breathing, in and out. Just as she had done a thousand times before, she began the ceremony.
“Night falls, and darkness descends.” She called, arms outstretched. “Blessed Nightsinger, hear the prayers of your children. Extinguish the light of hope, and shroud us in sacred shadow. We do not hide from your darkness, Mistress. In darkness, we act.” With a careful hand, Shadowheart removed her mask. “In your endless dark, we are our true selves.”
The Fidelians and her fellow Dark Justiciars followed suit, while the novices, sentries, and guards all stood from their seats and removed their dark cloaks. Shadowheart led them all into the traditional canticle.
Lady Shar, Mother Night.
Hear our most solemn refrain.
Against our will, we were ripped from your breast.
Condemned to a world full of pain.
Save us, O Nightsinger.
Extinguish the Stars.
Grant us eternal rest.
Our faith is strong, blades are sharp.
We long for your final test.
When the canticle was done, Shadowheart gestured to signal that her children could sit, and they did so. The doors to the kitchen opened, servers bringing food and wine to each table. The food was simple; cured meats and roast vegetables. It was no extravagant Upper City feast, but it was hearty enough to keep Lady Shar’s next generation healthy and well-fed. Shadowheart’s own food was no fancier than what the rest of her children ate. After it was laid down in front of her, she requested the server to remain with a tap on the shoulder.
Once the food was all laid out, they all followed as Shadowheart raised her goblet in toast to the Dark Lady. “Lady of Sorrows, we dedicate this feast to you.” She called to the shadows. “Drink full, my children, and descend!” They all drank a sip in unison, and the feast began.
Shadowheart watched from her seat as several dark-haired adepts began a seductive dance to music played by enchanted instruments. Her children were enraptured as they began eating and talking amongst themselves, though Shadowheart dared not touch a morsel of what lay on her plate until the server did so first, at her invitation. When they showed no reaction beyond simple enjoyment of the taste, Shadowheart bade them leave, and with great trepidation, she began to eat.
As the revelry came to a close, Shadowheart took a heavy sip of her wine, and deemed it time to rise from her seat once more, to begin a speech that came from the heart. She coughed to gain the attention of her children.
“Before the beginning, there was nothing. After the ending, there will be nothing.” Shadowheart’s speech began. “We children of the Dark Lady were ripped from her breast by the traitorous Selûne, and cast in blinding light, forced to toil and suffer until our Mother embraces us once again. And she will. It is as inevitable as the setting sun, but it is also our duty as her children to spread the dark word of Her embrace amongst the ignorant. Light blinds men to the truth, but we will make them see. Soldiers are carted off to die for the greed of their king, while the people toil under corrupt leadership, lining their meagre coffers in the folly that one day they may exist beyond their miserable means. They shake a hand in friendship, while the hand behind their back tightens its grip on a dagger, and they court relationships doomed to tragedy. Then when it all comes crashing down they empty their coffers on drink and whores, as if to cloud the pain for just a night. But they wake again, and the suffering goes on. On and on, until a thief finds more use for them as a sheathe, or the march of time finally catches up with them. Lowest beggar to highest king, no matter they hard they fight to reject her, Lady Shar’s embrace awaits them all.”
Her children watched in rapt silence as she continued. “Some of you have learned these harsh lessons for yourselves. Do not be ashamed, for you have come to me. The Dark Lady knows your pain, and the soothing hands of her oblivion will heal you. You need no friend nor family but your brothers and sisters. You need no love but the love you hold for Her. And you need no hope but that Her darkness consumes all.”
Shadowheart paused, allowing her words to wash over her children, before continuing once more. She raised her scarred hand in a balled fist. “Never the less…” She began. “Our Mistress, in her infinite wisdom, chose me to lead us in this sacred task. My fellow Justiciar’s proudly toute that they slayed a single Selûnite to carry their title,” Shadowheart laughed, “something most here can lay claim to, I’m sure. Meanwhile, I alone was guided by the Dark Lady to a land consumed by Her shadow. With Her blessing, I walked through cold umbra that would consume any other soul, and felt nothing but warmth. I completed the trials of the sacred Gauntlet, my faith as my guide, and my Lady rewarded me.” Shadowheart held her scarred hand above her head as purple magic stirred around it, manifesting the Spear of Night into her grip. “With Lady Shar’s own spear, I descended into the Shadowfell itself, and slew the moon-bitches daughter.” She slammed the butt of the spear into the ground with an echoing clang that made some of her followers jump from their seats. “I slew the traitor, Ketheric Thorm, and ended the rule of Viconia DeVir. She resisted the Dark Lady’s will, and would have led this Cloister to ruin, just like she did in Waterdeep.” A convenient lie. “I showed her the folly of her defiance. By the grace of our Lady, I became your Mother Superior. Monteith conspired to steal from me. He thought himself above my rule, above the rule of the Dark Lady herself, but he learned his lesson.” Shadowheart spoke slowly now, scanning the eyes of each and every Sharran. “I do not stand before you by some mishap, or through personal-gain. All of this, is the Dark Lady’s design.”
She tossed her spear into her left hand and raised her right once more, clenching her fist as the shadows in the room stirred. Clouds of thundering, roiling darkness engulfed the room, whorling above the heads of every Initiate as Shadowheart’s wound became an open gate to the Shadowfell. “This is the Dark Lady’s power”, Shadowheart called in a voice carried clearly upon the blowing winds, “and I am Her Chosen. I am the voice that guides those who Embrace her, and I am the sword that strikes down those who reject Her.” The thunder stopped and the magic began to dissipate as Shadowheart threw down her arm. “Follow me, and you will walk into her loving embrace. Stand against me, and you will be devoured by nothingness.”
She hoped the demonstration would scare any novices with ideas above their station into submission, but even so, as the evening curfew approached, Shadowheart made her preparations to return to her private residence.
“It will not reflect well on you,” Owltalon said, “if you leave once again.”
“You would compel me to stay?” Shadowheart asked, brow raised in suspicion. “Sister Nocturne stayed, as did Sister’s Mirie and Dollay.” She chided, before sighing in relief. “Chosen is tiring business, Sister Owltalon, especially in such troubled times as these. Allow your Mother Superior some time to herself, now and again. Let them stew upon my words and reflect. I will return in the morning, as always.”
“Very well.” Owltalon accepted, and left her alone.
When Shadowheart made it to the front door of the House of Grief, her ears were accosted by small, rushing footfalls, and the creaking of the staircase behind her. Young Kathryn burst into the room. “Mother, wait.” She called, slightly out of breath.”
Shadowheart stood still, slightly amused at the sight. “Well go on girl, it’s almost time for your curfew.”
“How did you do that sparkly stuff earlier? It’s all the other initiates are talking about.” Kathryn said.
Shadowheart raised her hand, fingers outstretched, eyeing the black hole drilled into the pale skin. “This wound,” she said, turning her hand so Kathryn could see the mark, “was once used to guide me, to keep me true to the Dark Lady when my thoughts strayed. When I became Mother Superior…” Shadowheart faltered in her thoughts, the specifics cloudy in her mind. “The wound became a source of her blessing, allowing me to draw upon her power.”
Kathryn was in awe. “That’s incredible…”
“I know.” Shadowheart said. “Now, if that’s all-“
“Wait!” The girl interrupted her, making Shadowheart jump. “I was wondering…” The girl clammed up, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Go on.” Shadowheart hesitantly encouraged.
The girl stared at the wooden planks at her feet. “Mother and Father always used to take me to the markets on Deadwinter Day. It was our tradition.”
Shadowheart sighed heavily. “Your old traditions, your old life, are gone now girl.”
“It’s just the one day, please.” The girl begged, yearning in her eyes. “I’d be back in time for Nightfall!”
“No.” Was all Shadowheart said, her tone cold. “Foolish girl, the Dark Lady’s Crusade cannot be put on hold, not even for a day.”
The girl’s voice shook. “I just thought you might like, I mean that you would-“
Shadowheart scowled. She had clearly allowed the girl too close. “I may be your Mother Superior, Kathryn, but I am not your Mother. My duty is to train you in the image of our Lady, and I cannot do that if I take you prancing around markets and light shows. The only thing that should interest you about Midwinter is the long nights.”
Shadowheart’s disappointment in the girl grew as she almost began to cry. “No tears, remember?” Shadowheart said curt. “Dry your eyes, then back to your dorm. Go, with our Lady’s blessing.”
Despite herself, her gaze softened as she watched the girl sulk back into the Cloisters darkness. She blanketed her shadowed heart with her warm cloak, wrapping it tight around herself, and stepped out into the night. The chill of the air pierced like an arrow straight through her woollen shield, while flakes of snow lay poisoned kisses upon her face and nestled in her black hair. She smiled when her breath appeared in the air like Red Dragon smoke, but it disappeared when she drew her cloak around her face for warmth, and began the journey home.
Griefguard Afara stood like a black statue at the bottom of the stairs, wrapped in dark leather and wool. “May the darkness protect you, my lady.” She whispered as Shadowheart walked past.
“lady Shar’s blessing to you, Sister Afara.” Shadowheart returned the greeting.
Compared to the hustle and bustle of the morning, the evening streets were veritably abandoned, save for the occasional drunk who slurred “Merry winter” as they stumbled home through snow-filled streets. The taverns they emerged from were the opposite, exuding such a warmth that seemed to melt the snow that rested on their slate roofs, filled as they were with the sounds of music and merriment.
Shadowheart came to a stop at an overlook at the end of the road. Grey Harbour lay below, visible through the usual haze of abyssal fog, thanks to those ever pervasive fairy lights that corrupted every street. Trade schooners, travelling Galleons, war brigs decorated with a Flaming Fist; all swayed side-to-side, tugging at the ropes that chained them to the dock.
Further beyond and far above was crying crescent Selûne, a shining blight nestled in beautiful night. Her silver-light waltzed along the slowly lapping waves of the Chionthar, and reflected on the white sails of a lonely galleon, which drifted along in silent tranquillity as she bought her sailors home for the holiday.
She turned her gaze, but the incessant silver-light followed, making the frosted streets glitter in the dark like a constellation of ice. She scowled, standing in a veritable sea of shining silver, and retreated further inland to Baldur’s Gate, passing that bastard Balduran on the way. The Watch-man at the gate was the usual. He lay half-asleep, leaning on his halberd to keep him standing. He opened the Gate when he saw Shadowheart, allowing her to pass beyond.
Large-walled, vibrant-coloured buildings, which made those of the Lower City look like hovels, imposed upon the streets of the Upper City, wider and emptier than those below. Shadowheart walked, solitary. Alone and all in black, she could have been mistaken for a shadow, or some widowed ghost.
The solemn gloom was cut through by magically-infused lamps, and yet more festive lights that adorned each building. They were even more fanciful than those in the Lower City, as if each resident was in competition with the other for best-decorated home. She saw images of gods like Chauntea, Lady Frostkiss, and Gond, whose children’s crafts were a popular Midwinter gift. She saw animals who made their home in cold climates like reindeer, penguins, and white dragons. Celestials were an even more common sight, with Caritas, spirt of generosity, appearing on near-every home.
Shadowheart’s journey took her past a quiet, serene courtyard. In the cold darkness of Midwinter, it could have been mistaken for a grand memorial, but in the Summer, it was a veritable oasis of colours. Flowers and trees of every kind were all planted to honour the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, who stood like a giant, gleaming in polished marble, her hands resting on the pommel of her beloved longsword. The likeness was impressive, but there was always something about the eyes that bothered Shadowheart. Tav had a slight squint when she smiled, yet the statue’s eyes were wide open. The only flowers that still bloomed, planted in its shadow, were a patch of Night Orchids.
On easier days, Shadowheart would sit on the stone plinth, reading scripture as the birds played her a soothing symphony. An unfortunate impossibility now. Surrounding the plinth was a wrought-iron spiked fence, which prevented anyone from getting too close. The city had declared it an unfortunate necessity, after frequent defacements were found scrawled upon it; threats to Tav, to her friends, and symbols of the Dead Three. The Nightsinger’s eclipse had even appeared on Tav’s face, curiously on a morning following one of Tav’s visits. If Shadowheart had ever found out which initiate was responsible, a flogging would not be sufficient punishment…
Beyond the bounds of the courtyard and down an alley, stood a building of smooth white stone, topped with a tiled roof of sky-blue that lay blanketed in layers of snow. Compared to the veritable manors that surrounded it, it was a mere shed, but it was home enough for a Sharran, who had no want nor need to pay for the upkeep required of something larger. She had acquired it after placing an anonymous bid, when homes of the rebuilt Upper City began appearing on sale. That the home was located so close to the likeness of a former flame was mere coincidence, Shadowheart had once pleaded with Tav.
With a heavy iron key, Shadowheart opened the front door. Though it had all the amenities of a home, in truth it was more apt to call it a safe-house. It was dust-covered and spartan, decorations lacking in all rooms except Shadowheart’s own. With no light coming through the shuttered windows, the hallways, rooms, and open staircase were pitch black. Though thanks to whichever of her parents was the elf, not to mention the blessing of her Dark Lady, Shadowheart had no trouble finding her way through the gloom. Her room sat in a quiet corner of the third floor. The wooden staircase and floor boards creaked as she ascended, and even the door groaned as she opened it.
Compared to her private quarters in the Grotto, this room was richly decorated. Though material goods were beyond the want of Sharrans, as Mother Superior, she had decided that she would be allowed some small comforts, that were to be her own secret.
Moonlight streaming in through the windows found purchase upon lavender carpet. Shadowheart moved to the fireplace. With a whispered Ignis and a click of her fingers, a ball of flame lit the room, which she placed unto the logs. The fireplace cleared the room of darkness, and the chill that seeped incessantly through the windows. Shadowheart cursed herself. She had forgotten to close the shutters. She moved to remedy her mistake, but found herself staring at Tav’s likeness for too long before finally blinding herself to the image.
Shadowheart fed her many plants from a can of water, then grabbed a half-empty wine bottle from the nightstand next to her bed, which was large enough for five of her, and canopied with drapes of violet. She slumped into the armchair that sat in front of the fire. She should rest, ready for another day, but sleep refused to come, so she stared into the flames, and drank from the bottle. Bored and alone, she turned to her bookshelf and sighed heavily. Nothing these days caught her interest for longer than a few pages, and books about Sharrans were only written if the aforementioned turned heretic by its end.
So she sat, and drank, hoping the wine would lull her to sleep. In solemn reverie, she stared at the room, eyes fluttering between the various effects gained during her travels. Though she closed her shutters to Tav, her presence still haunted the room.
Encased in a small frame, and placed upon the mantle of her fireplace, was a Night Orchid. Within the Cloister, there was a secret cavern full of them, blooming unbeknownst to her children. Tav would find her there, long ago, and Nocturne before that. But this Night Orchid was not from that cave. It was from a land of shadow, blessed by the Dark Lady. Tav remembered an off-hand comment Shadowheart had made about liking the flower. So, like some love-struck fool, moon-lantern in hand, she ventured in secret into that darkness just to find it, so she could give it to Shadowheart. Curiously, Tav expected no reward, and though she was attempting to court Shadowheart, she would certainly have done the foolish act regardless. Tav did it because Shadowheart liked the flower. Her soft-heart needed no other excuse. Shadowheart snickered quietly, when she remembered Tav’s face at her cruel jape about the flowers being poisonous, and then Tav’s own laughter, mellifluous like the melodies she bought forth from her lyre.
In a corner next to the window, sat a small shrine to the Dark Lady. A vibrant lavender cushion for kneeling rested below a dark wooden desk. The rich aroma of spice and wood emanated from two bowls of incense placed upon it. Between them stood an idol. Carved out of black marble, it captured her Mistress’ dark majesty in perfect likeness.
Upon finding an idol to the Dark Lady, most would leave it be, perhaps even destroy it. Tav, who was not most people, thought of Shadowheart, and gifted it to her, the first gift Shadowheart had ever received. That had earned her a kiss from the humble cleric, though the Dark Lady herself was not so pleased. The wound had struck, a lesson to keep Tav from her heart, and a lesson she should have heeded.
Shadowheart’s reminiscence was interrupted as the wind outside began to howl, rattling the shutters as if someone was trying to break in. The latch holding them in place snapped, and they flew open, letting in waves of cold air which flooded the room, snuffing out the roaring fire as if it were a mere candle. Moonlight streamed once more through the window, almost blinding Shadowheart as her Darkvision struggled to adjust to the newly dim room. She jumped from her chair, the light now passing her to illuminate the door. Curiously, the light seemed to almost seep through the gap beneath, gathering in illumination, all while the temperature continued to plummet. Shadowheart hugged herself for warmth, almost jumping when she heard the chime of a bell, though from where she could not tell. She even heard the hoot of an owl from outside, a rare sound indeed within the city walls.
She examined her bottle of wine. Have I been poisoned? She thought. No, I’d know. I must have had too much, she assured herself, remembering how much she had already drank during the Nightfall. But as she watched the silver-light under the door grow in intensity, as if someone was carrying a lamp up the stairs, she decided to take no chances. In a flash, the bottle in her hand was replaced with the Spear of Evening, its tip pointed toward the door. Shadowheart stood her ground, but the bell continued its toll, its every ding-dong vibrating through her skull, reaching a cacophonous crescendo and then…
Absence.
A clawed hand of ethereal blue light reached straight through the door. An intruder from beyond the plane then, Shadowheart thought. Her eyes narrowed as her stance widened for balance, weapon raised. Living or dead, it mattered not to Lady Shar’s own spear.
When the rest of the ghost shimmered through, Shadowheart faltered. It wore a dark robe with a plunging neckline, similar in fashion to her own, though more austere in its design. Blue-black blood dripped from its open neck wound like a leaky faucet, travelling down between its breasts and disappearing beneath the robe. It reached out with clawed hands that waded through the air like a child learning to swim, while its tail whipped around like an excited cat. Irises that glowed ice-blue in a sea of black fluttered this way and that, passing Shadowheart but never truly seeing. It was as if the figure was readjusting itself to the material plane after so long away.
Curved horns and pointed ears poked out of long, loose dark hair, that waved behind the figure as if it were in water. Finally, its gaze found her, and it smiled. “Shadowheart.” Its voice was more hollow than hoarse, yet all-too-familiar. It spoke as if talking was foreign to it; its words weak and lost upon the air.
Shadowheart’s grip tightened on the spear. “Who are you? What are you?” She stood like a soldier at-the-ready, but her trembling voice betrayed her fear, for she knew the answer already.
“Forgotten me already?” The ghost chuckled. “I think You know who I am.”
Dead and witty… great. “How can I be so sure.” Shadowheart tried to rationalise. “Perhaps my drink has dulled my senses, or someone’s poisoned my it, and this is all some strange hallucination. Maybe I fell asleep without realising, and this is just some dream I’ll wake up from in a moment.” Her voice was panicky, and she spoke quick.
The ghost shook its head. “Pinch yourself, and you’ll have your answer to that. Listen to your heart, if your mind tries to wrestle with your vision.” The ghost pleaded.
“You could be a devil, for all I know. I see those horns! You’re trying to… trick me into some bargain by wearing a familiar face.” Shadowheart barked, smirking. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re a friend of Raphael, come to settle old scores.”
The ghost cared little for her accusations. “Surely then I’d be appearing before Tav?”
Shadowheart scoffed. “What, like I’m not important enough?” She poked her spear forward. “I was there, at Tav’s side! This spear’s killed its fair share of Avernus’ residents.”
The ghost almost sighed. How quickly they had fallen back into old bantering. “You are important enough, Shadowheart, or I couldn’t have come. Open your heart to me, one last time. You may have taught me the art of deception, but I come to you as my honest self.”
Thoughts swirled in Shadowheart’s head like a tornado, and she shook her as if that would clear it. She loosened her grip on the spear, but the panic in her voice only rose. “But you don’t understand, you can’t be her. Nocturne has been embraced by the Dark Lady, and it’s not like you’re one of Her honoured dead. I’d know, I’ve faced them before. I do not sense the Dark Lady on you.” There was dread in Shadowheart’s eyes.
“You are correct. The Embrace we seek never came for me. Another dark lady occupied my heart and mind. So our Mistress deemed me false, and I was left to wander, forgotten, to be made the play-thing of demon and devil alike.”
Shadowheart slammed the butt of the spear into the wooden floor with a crack, and her voice cracked too. “I won’t believe that. You were my only true friend, the only one amongst all of my followers I could ever trust. You were loyal to me, Her Chosen. That must count for something.” Nocturne’s expression only grew more melancholic as Shadowheart pleaded. “Our whole lives have been in service to Her, I refuse to believe She’d just drink her fill of you only to cast you aside like an empty bottle.”
“No doubt our previous Mother Superior thought the same. We both know our Lady has a… fickle nature.”
“I could speak to her.” There was desperation in Shadowheart’s voice. “Petition her, on your behalf.”
Nocturne’s smile was appreciative, but there was only sadness in her eyes. “It is too late for me, Shadowheart. But perhaps your own fate is not so certain.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you are?” Shadowheart twisted, suddenly bullish. “The Dark Lady will not cast me aside. Everything I have done, everything I am is for Her.”
Nocturne continued. “Spoken so confidently. Yet I feel your heart wavering once again. You stand at a crossroads, Shadowheart, your future too dark to see the right way. But you have been offered a torch.”
Shadowheart wanted to defy the ghost, to spit venom until it left, but how could she, when it wore that face. Her head dropped, and she wrapped herself around her spear for comfort. “Go on.”
“The choices I made in my life led me to my sorry fate. I have no-one to blame but myself. I turned to the Dark Lady of my own volition. She gave me a family, and then she sent me you. But you have given so much to that mirror, more than you could ever know. You were stolen from the path you were supposed to walk, and forced into this life. Something beyond feels you deserve another chance to walk away.”
Shadowheart was incredulous. “So some Celestial is offering me an olive branch if I betray my Lady?”
“You will be taken on a journey, and shown nothing more than the reality to which the Dark Lady has kept you blind. Perhaps you will thank her for it, or perhaps you will curse her. When all is said and done, whatever choice you make will be your own.”
“And this journey… these lessons… you are to be my guide?” Shadowheart asked with a raised eyebrow.
Nocturne’s head flowed side to side. “I am nothing more than a messenger. Three spirits shall be your guide. The first shall appear when the clock strikes one, the second at two. The third… the third, when he wishes.”
“Very well. Is that all?”
“That is all,” Nocturne nodded, “and now I must go.”
“Thank you, Nocturne.” Shadowheart said with more sorrow than she intended to show. “Whatever happens, I have missed you.”
“I have missed you too, my Shadowheart. In all that darkness, you were my one ember of light.” Ghostly and cold her visage was, Nocturne’s smile was as warm as any fire. “Your fate is your own concern now, but for the life we shared together, I hope you pay heed to what you are shown.” Nocturne’s ghost floated toward the window, and her fiery eyes stared solemnly over the city, taking one final look at the material plane. The Hero of Baldur’s Gate, who had become something of a friend, peeked over snow-capped rooftops, standing in silent vigil over the city she called home. Below, fairy lights lit up tree-lined streets of glittering snow, in mirror to the endless expanse of stars above. “It’s a beautiful night.” Nocturne sighed wistfully. “If only I had realised it sooner.”